Trefry! Trefry, huzzah!
Down came Sol's stick on his antagonist's right shoulder.
"There, there! You are no match for me," laughed the old man. "Will you give over—and pull off my boots?"
"Never!" shouted Anthony, and struck at him again, again ineffectually.
"Look out, Tony! save your head!"
The old man, by a dexterous back-handed blow, struck up Anthony's staff, and with a light stroke he touched his ear. He had no intention to hurt him, he might have cut open his head had he willed; but he never lost his good-humor, never took full advantage of the opportunities given him by the maladroitness of his antagonist.
It was exasperating to the young man to be thus played with, trifled with by a man whom he despised, but who he felt was, at all events at single-stick, his master.
"Hah!" shouted Anthony, triumphantly. His stick had caught in Sol's wig, and had whisked it off his skull, but instantly the old man with a sweep of his staff smote his stick from the hand of Anthony, leaving him totally disarmed.
"There, boy, there! Acknowledge thyself vanquished."
Then the old fellow threw himself down on the bench, with his back to the table.